Child
by ArgentNoelle
Summary: Sometimes it seems Sherlock thinks he's not human. But what if he really wasn't?


This started out as something totally different and then changed suddenly without my permission. I'm rather afraid of it, actually, (being the only story I've written that ever did such a thing) but now that I read the story again, much later, I found that it was pretty well written, even though I still don't know what to think of it, so, anyway... here it is.

* * *

Child

* * *

It was the socks again. What was it about socks? I had bought three new pairs only last week, and now, as I sorted the laundry, I could find not one _single_ pair.

That was it, I decided. I was not going to go along with this any more. Those socks must be found.

I went down eleven steps to the basement, where the monsters were. They were real monsters, too—first off was the washing machine, which when it got out of hand, thumped eerily, jumping slowly away from the wall until it was turned off. It made a sound like a giant serpent's tail thudding, thudding, thudding, and then went faster and faster until your mind conjured up images of a wildly rampaging washing machine charging across the darkened floor, eating up all the random stuff that settled down in the base of the house. You had the feeling that, if you went down there, it would charge into you and knock into you, knock you aside, and not even notice.

The second monster was 'the pig'. Or was it the cow? The big, black, hulking thing that brooded on the side of the basement, never did anything, not like the other monsters, could almost be forgotten, except for its aura. That one was scary because of its power, though it would never do anything—but only because it had no reason to. It dreamt dark dreams full of things forgotten.

The third monster was the boiler. It was older, with an almost quaint antiqueness in it, an old-style monster, not like these newfangled, shiny ones. It wasn't really scary except for the times it suddenly stated making noise, all of a sudden, and startled you out of complacency.

But I wasn't afraid of the monsters, and I went down the eleven steps and shone light into all the corners, making the shadows fold themselves into nothing until I turned aside.

No socks anywhere.

"OK guys, where are my socks?"

Nobody answered.

Typical.

I put my hands on my hips, thinking. The socks hadn't all vanished, it was just that there weren't any pairs. So it wasn't the black hole. No, this had a distinctly intelligent feel to it.

Sock-elves. I had Sock-elves!

I scowled. Really, wasn't living in this drafty old museum of a house hard enough without sock-elves into the bargain?

Well, they weren't going to get any more socks, not if I could help it.

Just then the air filled with an unearthly howl. It was chilling and far-away, not werewolves…ghosts?

I followed the sound, till I got to the corner of the basement. The Corner of the Basement is an out-of-the-way place that is very hard to find, and I would have been surprised except for the strange sight that met my eyes. I grinned. Under a broken pipe with wind whistling through it was a pile of socks three feet high, and poking their heads out were the tiny eyes and pointed ears of sock-elves, and in the middle was…

A fairy child.

"Oh," I gasped. Of course! I crouched down, staring at the delicate body and pink bubble-like wings of the fairy child. It blinked up at me with delicate lashes and smiled, showing sharp white teeth.

The Sock-elves had advanced out of the pile and stood protectively around the creature. "Its OK, I won't hurt it," I said softly, and they relaxed, though they didn't retreat.

"But why socks?" I asked. "Don't fairy children usually like moonbeams and cobwebs and early morning dew?"

"I like sssockth," the fairy-child lisped, staring at me fiercely. Its curly black hair swept around its human-like ears.

"OK," I said. Not understanding, but then fairies were fairies.

The child was staring at me in curiosity. "What are you?" It asked.

"I'm a human," I said.

The child tilted its head. "Whath a humanssss?"

"It means I'm not a fairy."

For a moment, it seemed uncomprehending, then it suddenly seemed to understand.

"Different."

"Yes."

It stared at me hungrily. "I want a humansss."

"No, it's not like that," I said with a laugh, "You can't have a human, we're not pets."

"Oh," it said in disappointment.

Then: "Different," it said again.

"Yes."

It thought. "Meet you again?"

"Of course."

Suddenly it smiled a feral smile. "Good. You are different. I liketh you."

…

I met the fairy-child again. It appeared many times, sometimes regularly, sometimes with prolonged absences, but it always came back. It was still young, but not a child anymore.

"I want to be a human," it announced suddenly, perching on the edge of my counter. I was making muffins, and almost dropped the bowl of batter.

"What?"

Its wings folded and unfolded, iridescent in the light from the French doors. "You heard me."

"Yes, but—why?"

"Because," it explained patiently, "humans are different."

I smiled wryly. "You haven't met many humans, have you?"

"You are a human."

"Look, not all humans are like me."

"Humans are different," it insisted.

"But why do you want to be human?" I asked.

"Fairies are boring," it said decidedly.

I shook my head with a smile, pouring the batter into the tin. "Child, you have got a problem there. People are people, fairies or humans. I have the feeling you would find almost everyone boring if you keep looking at the world like that."

"What?" It clearly didn't understand.

"Just trust me. Don't try it. You know that if you turn human, its permanent—you can't go back. I think you'll regret it. Wait a little."

"That's all they ever say!" Its temper flared up, and it hopped off the counter, wings flapping furiously. "Wait till your older, you're too young, listen to your elders."

"Calm down, OK?" I put the muffins in the oven and closed the door while the fairy flew around the room. "I'm afraid you'll knock something over. It was OK when you were little but now you're as tall as I am!"

It crossed its arms and sat down on a kitchen chair, then crossed its legs.

"I'm not like them," it said. "I don't fit. I'm different. Humans are different. I want to be human."

"I can't stop you but think it through at least. Go look at some other humans besides me before you decide what you want to do."

It tilted its head to the side. "OK," it said, and disappeared.

…

It was three months later when I heard a knocking on my door and when I opened it, someone collapsed inside. It was a young man, and he was shivering and coughing, his cheeks flushed with fever and his skin unearthly pale under his jet-black curls. He had a long black coat pulled around him.

"Oh, Child," I said kindly. "Come in."

I ran a hot bath for him and gave him a spare pair of warm pajamas to wear. When he came down to the library I had lit a fire and he sat in front of it, so close I would have been burning, staring at the hypnotic flames.

"What happened?" I asked.

"You were right," he said, putting his head on his knees. "They were all right."

"Tell me," I said. So he did.

.

.

.

"They're boring. All of them. Such tiny minds, such idiots, all of them! And they do…terrible things…" he trailed off, his haunted gaze staring into the flames.

"Oh, Child," I said, and took him in my arms, rocking him. He said nothing more that night.

In the morning, he came downstairs wearing his black coat. "I took your advice," he said. "I looked at more humans before I decided. I watched an artist paint fire and two children rowing in a boat, I talked with a man smarter than I am, someone with eyes that hide the secrets of the world. I skipped lightly over the darkness because I couldn't see or understand it. I changed. You know how it happens. At the full moon I bathed in the waters of life, the waters that can only be found once by everyone, mortal or immortal, and said the spell of change, the oldest spell of this world, whose words burn the air. Then I went out in the world, but it was not the way I had seen it."

"It never is," I said softly.

"I met someone and trusted them, and they betrayed me. I got lost in darkness. I wanted to be free again. I tried things that made me feel free, but it never lasted, and it was never real, only illusion. I went out to search for wisdom and all I found was cruelty, callousness, kind ignorance, people who didn't know how to think. I wanted to die.

"I never knew what dying was, before. I knew you humans did it, but it was part of the natural pattern. I didn't see it how you see it until I saw killing.

"Then I understood. I understand. I don't…I don't know." He took a breath. "Humans are different, but not the way I wanted them to be. I want to go back. To before."

"I am sorry, Child," I said, tears running down my cheeks. "I am so sorry."

…

Two years later he came to my house again.

"Child!" I cried, smiling. I could see he was better now, than he had been before, self-assured and bold, though in his eyes was the knowledge that would never leave them.

He smiled shyly. "I have a name now. Is that OK? I took yours."

"Mine?"

"Well, not yours exactly. I changed it a little. Sherlock Holmes."

I laughed. "That's a fine name."

He came into the house and looked around, noticing all that had changed and stayed the same.

"And…I met someone. Someone different. Like me. His name is John."

"Oh, Sherlock," I said, and smiled. "I am so happy for you."

...

He was crying.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?"

He said nothing, only ran into my arms.

"Sherlock, shhh. Shhh. What's wrong?"

"Its John," he said finally. "He's so sad."

"Why is he so sad?"

"Because he thinks I'm dead. And it's my fault. And he didn't believe me. And I jumped, and he was bad but I played the game anyway because he was different and now he is sad and Mycroft is no help!"

"Who's Mycroft?"

"My brother. He thinks he should look after me. He thinks he should look after the whole world. All the silly little mortals who scurry around, he wants to protect them, but he couldn't help John."

"I'm sorry," I said, and I was.

I could find out what had happened later. Right now, I held my fairy-child and grieved with him.

…

Finis

…

.

* * *

See? I told you it was... rather unusual.


End file.
